


In Which Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle

by tabaqui



Series: Wolfpack [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title is from 'Winnie-the-Pooh' by A.A. Milne.<br/>Outside POV - a 'Wolfpack' version of season one's 'Something Wicked'.  Originally posted in February of 2008.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Which Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Winnie-the-Pooh' by A.A. Milne.  
> Outside POV - a 'Wolfpack' version of season one's 'Something Wicked'. Originally posted in February of 2008.

_Sheboygan, Wisconsin...1998_  
  


Christopher Mullen was nineteen – _*nineteen and four months*_ – and still not quite sure of himself. Well, not quite sure about himself being in a _bar_. His mom had strong ideas about liquor and drinking and what kind of a person it made you, and while Christopher didn't think she was _wrong_... he wasn't one-hundred percent sure she was right, either. Which was why he was here, in this place about a fifteen minutes off campus, with his made-to-look-used brand new fake ID.  
  
 _*She usually **is** right, though...*_ Chris took a deep breath, ignoring the little voice in his head. Took a deeper drink of his Crown and Coke and promptly choked on it. _*Jesus...Christ!*_  
  
"Hey, got a lightweight, here," somebody said, and a heavy hand clapped him on the back. Chris wheezed out a lungful of air and highball, clutching the sticky edge of the bar and trying not to slide right off the slippery seat of his bar stool. "Gonna make it?"  
  
"I'm good, I'm – good." Chris straightened up and took a hard breath in – coughed again and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He looked over at the guy who'd been talking, taking in impressions. Dark hair, white skin with an outdoor-tan, leather jacket. Bigger than Chris, but not particularly menacing. Grinning with white teeth through a couple days worth of stubble. Chris picked his glass up and lifted it in salute – took a smaller sip, swallowing with a tiny wince.  
  
"All right, then. Way to be a man."  
  
"Yeah –" Chris said, but the guy was turning away, looking for the bartender. Reflected in the mirror behind the ranks of bottles and Chris watched him for a minute. Something familiar to him. Something in the way he held himself – in the stillness of his body and the way his gaze flicked here, there, there.  
  
 _*Way to be a man...way to be a man... Oh. Oh, Jesus. No way.*_ "Hey, uh –" Chris reached out a tentative hand toward the worn leather sleeve of the coat and just touched it when the guy twitched out his reach.  
  
"Keep your hands to yourself," the guy said, and Chris looked straight into green, green eyes whose girl-prettiness were offset by the predator's gleam in them.  
  
 _*Fuck, maybe kinda menacing...*_ Green eyes he _knew_. Eyes he saw in his dreams, more nights than not. "I know you," Chris blurted out, and the guy's eyebrow went up, pure skepticism in his gaze.  
  
"Doubt it. Just passing through."  
  
"No, I – you....it was a long time ago, man. I mean – we were kids. There was this...thing, this...creature."  
  
The guy stared at him for a heartbeat – turned when the bartender came over. "Two Buds," he said, quick and easy flash of a smile. And then he turned back to Chris and the smile was gone, just like that. "You don't know me," he said, low. Just under the noise of the bar – the music and the sports blaring on the big-screen TVs. That predator look was back in his gaze – sharp and emotionless and cold as ice.  
  
"Dean – table's free." Another man – taller, broader, with a heavier beard and a streak of grey in his dark-brown hair. Bear-rumble of a voice that Chris could not – would not _ever_ – forget.  
  
"I'm there," Dean said. The bartender set two beer bottles down and Dean picked them up in one hand – dropped a ten on the bar top. "Try and keep your liquor going down the right way." He shot that quicksilver grin at Chris and then he was gone, eeling through the crowd to the back room - the pool tables and his dad.  
  
 _*Dad. Dean...and Sam. Sammy. Where's Sam? No, he's...just a kid, can't come in here...*_ Chris watched them set up a game – drink their beer – laugh together, prowling around the table like wolves. Chris finished his drink and ordered another and sat there. _*Way to be a man...way to be a man...*  
  
  
  
  
Fort Douglas, Wisconsin...1989_  
  
  
Christopher pushed a little tighter into the wall, arms around his knees – fingers all but digging holes in his arms. Watching in gut-churning terror as the man wrapped duct-tape around his mom's wrists. She was whispering, tears making dark patches on the faded bandana the man had tied around her eyes.  
  
"Please, _please_ , don't do this, don't...do this, please, let my son go, let him go, he won't tell anybody, please –"  
  
"M'am, you need to hush now," the man said. He tore a last piece of duct tape off the roll, clumsy. His hands encased in thin leather gloves, the kind you drive in. He smoothed the tape over Mom's mouth, careful not to stick it into her hair. "Can you breathe?" She tilted her face up at him, nostrils flaring. Nodded jerkily, and the man pushed himself to his feet. He was wearing worn-out jeans and big boots, like Dad's Army buddies. And an Army kind of coat, dull green with big pockets. "Alright. I'm gonna put you in the closet with your man. You just sit real still and this'll all be over before morning."  
  
The man put his hands up under Mom's armpits and dragged her out of the living room – into the hall closet. All the overshoes and coats had been pulled out and Chris's dad was in there, propped in one corner. The man had punched him, once, hard, and Chris's dad had fallen down, eyes closed.  
  
His hands and feet were taped up, too, like Mom's, and tape over his mouth. The man bumped around in the closet – backed out and shut the door and Chris could hear, faint and muffled, his mom screaming. It made him want to throw up. The man walked back to where he'd dropped the roll of tape and picked it up. Shoved it inside a brown canvas bag and pulled a gun out, instead. It was black and thickish – ugly, like the guns the bad guys used on TV. The man hefted the bag up over his shoulder and then walked over to Chris and stood there, looking down at him.  Chris wondered if _all_ serial killers looked that... _normal_.  
  
Chris looked back, nails digging into his skin now, little bites of pain that were the only thing keeping him from screaming just like his Mom. He was shaking all over – shaking down in his belly – pretty sure he was gonna pee himself in about one minute.  
  
"Son, you promised me you'd do exactly what I said. You gonna keep your promise?" Chris stared up at the man – at the lined face and the beardless cheeks – the knit cap pulled down tight over his ears. Stared at the gun that rested casually in his big hand. "Speak up."  
  
"Ye-yess'ir."  
  
"Do what I tell you and we'll be gone in no time, and your mom and dad'll be just fine." The man's boot touched Chris's foot, nudging just a little and Chris sucked in a ragged breath. "Misbehave, and you'll be sorry."  
  
"S-ss...ir. I'll be guh-good."  
  
"I know you will. Sammy – you come with me. Dean, I want you to stick tight to this boy until we're done, got it?"  
  
"Yes, sir." Chorus from over by the kitchen entry and the boys – who'd stood at the door, all big-eyed and scared, telling Chris's Dad that they were lost, that they were cold and scared and please, can you call our Mom? – came out of the shadows. One of them was real little, maybe like Kindergarten age, with heavy, curling hair and great big eyes. The other one was older – Chris thought he might be twelve or something, even though he wasn't any taller than Chris. It was the way he carried his gun – the way he'd pushed Chris right into the wall and told him to shut up, his eyes and his voice hard and steady.  
  
The little kid – Sammy – went with his dad up the stairs, toward the bedrooms, Chris guessed. The other one came over and stood over Chris just like his dad had, looking down. Gun glinting silvery-blue in the street-light coming through the window.  
  
"You gonna get up?"  
  
Chris gulped – pushed himself up, sliding along the wall. Stood there once he was on his feet, his knees feeling shaky and his belly hurting. "I – I gotta pee." The kid just stared at him and Chris felt his face flush hot, embarrassed and _thisclose_ to crying. But it would be worse if he peed his pajamas in front of this kid.  
  
"Jesus. Fine. There a toilet down here?"  
  
"Under the ss-stairs," Chris said, pointing, and the kid took a step back – gestured with the gun barrel.  
  
"Get going, then. And hurry up."  
  
Chris pushed away from the wall and walked, unsteady, past the hall closet. His mom was still making noise and he hesitated there, his hand going out.  
  
"Don't even think about it," the kid said, and the gun barrel touched his back, cold through his t-shirt.  
  
"I just – just wanna tell her I'm okay."  
  
"She knows you're okay. My dad said you'd be fine as long as they keep quiet and stay still."  
  
"Yeah, but –" Chris half-turned, looking back at the kid, who looked a little pissed off. "But she doesn't _know_ that."  
  
"Too bad, then. You wanna use the toilet or not?"  
  
Chris stared at the kid for another moment, chewing his lip. Wanting to grab the door knob and just hide in the closet with his parents. But the man had said he was their...guarantee. He was why his mom and dad would be quiet and wait and not call the cops, even though Chris didn't have any idea how they _could_ , all taped up like they were and his Dad not even awake. His belly cramped a little and Chris sagged. "Yeah, I gotta."  
  
The kid – Dean – gestured with the gun again and Chris turned away from the closet. Went down the hall and across the foyer – _foy-yay_ his Dad always said, laughing – and opened the little bathroom they'd built under the stairs. Just a sink and toilet but his Mom thought it was the best thing ever.  
  
"Don't turn the light on."  
  
"But –"  
  
"Don't. Turn. The light on. You can piss in the dark, not like it's hard."  
  
"Yeah, okay," Chris whispered. He didn't really like the under-stairs bathroom. The ceiling slanted a little and it was just...weird. Like, if he went in and shut the door, the door would disappear and he'd be trapped in there forever. Now, with all the lights off it was pitch black in there and he moved forward slowly, feeling with his feet so he wouldn't stub his toe or crash right into the toilet. He found it, finally, the chilly porcelain brushing against his foot and he groped for the lid – lifted it and then the seat. There was a very faint light coming in – just enough to see the white toilet like a fuzzy, pale toadstool in the dark. Chris pulled the fly of his pj pants open and aimed, hoping he wouldn't miss. Mom wouldn't be happy if he peed all over the toilet. _*'Cause being taped up in the closet makes her happy. Not like she's gonna care about a little pee...*_ Chris was careful anyway – peed and did his fly back up and groped for the handle.  
  
"Don't flush it. It makes too much noise. Let's go."  
  
"Okay. I gotta w-wash my hands."  
  
" _Jesus_! Didn't you hear me? Let's go! My dad's waiting." Chris could hear Dean moving and then a moment later he felt the kid's hand on his arm – on his back. Twisting into his t-shirt and jerking him back and he went, stumbling. Dean dragged him out of the bathroom and pushed him toward the stairs. "Get moving, and don't make any noise."  
  
"Okay, okay –" Chris wiped his nose with the back of his hand – sniffed and sniffed again and climbed the stairs. They were carpeted and the kid was so quiet behind him that for a minute Chris wondered if he was gone. If he'd stayed downstairs. He half-turned on the first landing and squeaked in surprise when the kid was _right there_ , practically touching him. Grinning, and Chris didn't like that grin. It reminded him of the big kids at school that liked to take your lunch or trip you.  
  
"I'm not goin' anywhere," the kid said, and Chris nodded. Turned back around and tripped, falling up the stairs. The kid made a snorting noise and Chris scrambled up the last bit of stairs on his hands and feet, straightening up at the top. At the end of the hall was the dull-gold glow of his night light, the slowly revolving panorama of stars and star-ships and moons. "What the hell is that?"  
  
Chris looked back over his shoulder, surprised, and saw that Dean was staring at the light – at the little flicker of shapes that moved across the wall and ceiling. "It's –" 'Nightlight' sounded like something for babies. It was just...the new house was kind of creepy at night, it made noise and there were trees that made weird shadows and... "It's just a light. It's like...a movie or something. I like spaceships, so –"  
  
"Yeah, whatever. Move." Dean almost-but-not-quite touched him with the gun barrel and Chris went slowly down the hall. Stopped dead in the doorway because the man – the dad – was tucking the other kid into Chris's bed, smoothing the covers and talking to him in that rumbly dog-growl voice. Dean shoved him hard and Chris stumbled into the room.  
  
"Okay – you know what to do, right? And Dean'll be right here."  
  
"I know, Dad. I can do it."  
  
"I know you can, son." The man patted Sam's cheek and stood up – glanced around the room. "That damn light –"  
  
"We can sit in the closet, Dad. It's pretty dark in there."  
  
The man looked at the closet, head tipped a little to one side. The folding doors were halfway open and some dirty clothes were spilling out of the tipped-over laundry basket. Chris's hockey stick and soccer ball were shoved in the corner, and his box of Matchbox cars was in there, too, flaps open because Chris had been looking for one particular car. "Maybe. You two get in there and lemme see."  
  
Dean nodded – pushed at Chris again and Chris shuffled slowly over to the closet. "Why – why do we – I wanna just –"  
  
"Mouth zipped," the man said. His voice was almost pleasant except...except it _wasn't_ and Chris was really glad he'd peed downstairs. He went over to the closet and kicked at the laundry basket, pushing it deeper inside. He went in – turned around, the rack of hoodies and shirts and his Sunday pants pushing at his back, hangers sliding on the rod.  
  
"Sit down in there. Right there, sit," Dean said, and Chris sank down, back to the wall. Shivering at the touch of cold plaster, tucking his knees in close to his chest. Dean followed him in – settled cross legged by simply crossing his ankles and sinking _down_ and for a moment Chris felt a little stab of envy. Every time he tried to do that, he tripped himself up and flopped. Dean poked at the hanging clothes, rearranging them, and scooted backward just a little. Settled, then, the gun resting on his knee. "Okay, dad – how's it look?"  
  
The man paced around the bedroom – half the time, Chris couldn't even see him. He stopped at the head of Chris's bed and squinted at them – poked Sam, who giggled. Finally he nodded. "Looks good, Dean. I'll be around, okay? Just sit tight."  
  
"Roger that," Dean said, and the man smiled – poked Sam one more time and then was gone. He was so quiet – nothing like Chris's dad, who tended to stomp and hum to himself. This guy was like a ninja or something, there one minute and gone the next.  
  
Chris sat very still – totally silent – for as long as he could. Then he just _couldn't_ anymore, and unfolded a little, letting his knees drop. "Why are we in here?" he asked, and Dean shot him a nasty look, frowning.  
  
"It's none of your business. Just be quiet and stay still and you won't get put in the closet with your folks."  
  
Chris stared at the kid's profile for a minute, wishing he had the nerve to just push him down and run – get out of the closet and out of the _house_ and run. Get the cops and have these freaks dragged off to jail. But if he ran, he'd be leaving Mom and Dad behind and he just...couldn't. "Look – this is _my_ house. I got a right to know what's going on in it!"  
  
Dean's hand came up and slapped over Chris's mouth, hard. His hand was rough – dirty, maybe. It had a smell to it, like when Mom dug in her garden. Like when they'd had that big bonfire at Grandpa's last year. Earth and smoke and...something. Something oily and sharp that reminded him of getting new tires, getting the oil changed. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna get my Dad back up here," he whispered, his voice fierce.  
  
Staring hard, light coming in the closet for a moment and sparking deep in his green eyes. Like a cat – like the foxes that knocked over the garbage one time. Chris jerked back, away from the hand – felt something under his palm and curled his fingers around it. His baseball bat. He clenched his fist tight on it – half-lifted it, feeling the fear being replaced by a swift, hot anger.  
  
"This is _my_ house," he whispered back, "and if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm gonna start making so much noise the _cops_ are gonna come!" Chris half-lifted the bat, knocking the end accidentally against the closet door with a muted _bang_ and the boy's eyes went wide and then narrow. Mean.  
  
"No you ain't," Dean hissed back, and his hand came up – the _gun_ came up, right into Chris's face. That oily smell stronger now and a sharp, bitter smell like firecrackers, making Chris want to sneeze. Or throw up.  
  
"You c-cuh-can't shoot me, it'll make a buh-big noise, you're dad'll be puh-pissed, r-really pissed –"  
  
"Shut up about my dad," Dean snapped. But after a moment he lowered the gun, chewing on his lip. "Fucking fine," he snapped, and Chris felt an extra little jolt of adrenalin go through him at the f-word coming out of another kid's mouth. "There's this thing, called a Striga. It sucks your soul out of you – eats it. And then you get sick and die. It's gonna come here tonight, we're pretty sure, so we're gonna kill it."  
  
Chris felt his mouth drop open – felt his stomach drop, sickening cramp. _*They're crazy. This is some kind of crazy white person thing! They're all crazy and they're gonna kill us, they're gonna kills us, Mom, Mommy...*_ "You're crazy! There's no such thing as – as that! There's no monsters!"  
  
Dean laughed softly – leaned a little, peering out the closet door. Looking toward his brother. "Yes there is. Everything is real. Almost everything. Werewolves and ghosts and witches...the Boogeyman...they're all real."  
  
"That's just....c-crap. You're just a bunch of – of crazy freaks –"  
  
Dean turned his head a little and the light caught across his eyes again. The look on his face was like nothing Chris had ever seen. It was...it was that mean dog down the street, who'd pace beside the fence as you walked along the sidewalk, ears flat and lips curling up and this _growl_... Like a car engine, deep and rattling and ugly. It never barked, it just _lunged_ , shaking the fence. Cracked some of the slats one time, and Chris's Dad had said to walk on the other side of the street from now on. That's what Dean looked like – like he was just going to _attack_ , and tear Chris's face off with his teeth.  
  
"We're not freaks. We kill evil things. All of 'em – all the time. It's what we _do_."  
  
"So, what – you're like superheroes or something?" Chris scoffed, putting as much scorn as he could into his voice, even though he was shaking all over, braced on trembling arms to try and dodge the attack he was sure was coming.. "Superheroes that tie people up and stick 'em in closets?"  
  
Dean made a soft noise, a little snort of dismissive laughter. "We're not superheroes. We're _hunters_."  
  
"You're crazy," Chris muttered, and Dean shrugged, suddenly cold again.  
  
"You'll see. All those kids in the hospital, all those kids from your school? They already got soul-sucked. You're lucky we figured out the pattern before it got to you."  
  
"They've got some kind of virus. It said in the paper –"  
  
"The paper's wrong. The doctors are wrong. We're right. And Sammy's out there in your place so it'll come in and try to get his soul and then we can kill it. Now shut up."  
  
Dean turned his face away, looking back out into Chris's room and Chris just sat there. Shaking, and feeling sick, and wanting very much to curl up under his old Batman sleeping bag that was in the corner and just...hide.  
  
But no one can be hopelessly terrified for too long and after a while – an hour, maybe – Chris's butt was asleep, and his foot, and he had to move. He twisted a little sideways and stretched out one leg, and then the next. Careful – slow. Watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. Gauging the possibility of a lunge at the fence.  
  
"My butt's asleep," he muttered, when Dean turned his head to look at him. Dean stared at him for a long moment and then nodded once, shifting a little himself. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low and soft.  
  
"It happens. I hate sitting around and waiting."  
  
"Do you...do you really do this? You're not lying?" Christ tucked his legs back up into a different position, left on top of right this time. It didn't help much.  
  
"Why should I? You'll see soon enough." Dean leaned sideways a little, peering out at his brother, Chris supposed. Settling back, all his movements slow and small. Cautious. He transferred his gun to his other hand and wiped his palm on his thigh – gripped the gun again, fingers curling familiarly around the...handle part. Chris couldn't help staring, and Dean finally noticed – shot him a little grin. "You never seen a gun before?"  
  
"Not for real. My mom hates 'em, she won't let me even have a BB gun. I only seen 'em on TV."  
  
Dean leaned over again, looking out, and nodded to himself. Then he lifted the gun, holding it so Chris could see. "It's a Smith and Wesson model 66 K-frame double action revolver. It can fire either a .357 or a .38 round. Six shots in the cylinder, and I got two fast loaders – see –" Dean fished something out of the big pocket of the dull-brown corduroy coat he wore – held it up as well. It was like a holder for six bullets, held in a circle that matched the shape of the gun. "See? If I fire all six rounds, then I just flip the cylinder out and shove these in, loads all six at once. So I'm ready to shoot again a lot faster than fooling around with single rounds."  
  
Chris stared at the gleaming steel of the gun – the brass jackets on the bullets. He reached out with his finger and touched them, running his finger in a circle over the softly rounded tips of the bullets. Dean grinned and tucked the fast loader away – pointed to the gun. "See, here's the hammer. You pull that back with your thumb and then you're ready to shoot. Always squeeze the trigger. If you jerk it, you won't fire straight."  
  
"Is it...is it really loud?"  
  
Dean shrugged. "Pretty loud. Sometimes we use ear plugs when we're practicing, 'specially when Dad's shooting." Chris shifted a little, turning to face Dean more. He reached out again, toward the gun, and Dean twitched it away, then moved it back. "Don't touch the trigger."  
  
"Okay." Chris ran his finger along the barrel – up over the hammer, which felt corrugated and rough against his skin. Down to the handle part which was smooth, polished wood, darkly swirled. "It's pretty. My dad would like that wood. He likes to build stuff."  
  
"It's mahogany. This gun's kinda old – newer ones have plastic grips. I like the wood, too." Dean rubbed his thumb over the smooth wood, then he adjusted his grip on the gun again and settled it back on his knee. "I got a Glock that –" There was a tiny noise – a _click_ that Chris just heard over the soft murmur of Dean's voice. Dean stopped talking – froze for one second and then looked straight at Chris. He lifted his hand up flat, 'stop', and then clenched his fist and held it near his ear. Chris nodded, shrinking back a little.  
  
 _*Is it the monster? The Stig...stiga... Maybe it's just his dad, maybe it's that tree outside, I hate that tree, maybe -*_  
  
There was another click and then a soft sliding sound and Chris knew _exactly_ what that was. It was his window, sliding up. The window that looked out over the yard – the one with the tree near it, but not near enough to actually climb to. Chris had figured that out his first week here. _*Is his dad opening the window? Maybe that Sammy kid got up...maybe he's letting it in! Does it control your mind? Maybe that's why those kids got soul-sucked, it makes you let it in and...*_  
  
There was a slithering sort of _thump_ out in the room and Chris saw the slowly revolving parade of rockets and planets jiggle, just a little. Something was out there. Something was _breathing_ , a rustly sort of wheeze that made the hair on the back of Chris's neck stand up. He looked at Dean, who was leaning. A tiny bit – then a tiny bit more. The gun was solidly in his grip, his left hand cupped under the handle, his right curled around the curved wood. The barrel of it was pointed down at the closet floor and Dean was shifting slowly, slowly, up onto his knees. Everything – every bit of him – focused on Chris's room. On whatever was out there.  
  
 _*His brother. His brother's out there and the stiga-thing's going to get him! Why doesn’t he shoot? Why doesn't his dad do something ,why -?*_  
  
There was another noise – a kind of gasping squeak and suddenly Dean just – moved. Faster than Chris thought was possible, up onto his knees, his feet – out of the closet and Chris scrambled after him. There was something – ragged and grey and horrible – crouched over Sammy. Weird, pale fog between their faces and then Dean was shooting, _onetwothree_ and it was loud, horribly loud. It hurt Chris's ears and there was that firecracker stink again, thick and sharp and Chris dropped to his knees, hands over his ears and tears starting in his eyes.  
  
There was a thump and then another thump and then the man's voice – " _Get down, Dean!_ " and then _bangbangbang_ again like thunder, like the house was falling down and Chris wanted to scream – wanted to _run_ but he was pretty sure he couldn't get up.  
  
"Keep back, son. Sammy, slide off the bed, get to your brother." There were more sounds – sliding sounds, and the sounds Sammy made going across the floor, and then there was another kind of muffled thud and _bangbang_ again and this time Chris did yell, throwing himself flat on the floor. His ears were ringing, and his nose stung, full of the sharp, burning stink of the guns and some other smell. Something thick and meaty-smelling. Rotten. It made him want to gag.  
  
"Sammy, you okay?"  
  
"I'm okay. Did'ja get it? Did'ja?"  
  
"Dean?"  
  
"We're good, Dad. All good. Is it dead?"  
  
"Looks like it. We'll burn it in case. You did good, Dean." There were footsteps, and then a cool hand closed on the back of Chris's neck and hauled. Chris yelped, kicking out – trying to jerk away and the hand tightened, hurting.  
  
"Ow, ow! Let me go!"  
  
"Quiet down." And it was that rumbly voice of the dad – the dad's big hand on him, his coat smelling like autumn leaves and pepper, like smoke. "You're not hurt, are you?" The man set him on his feet and let him go, and Chris stumbled back a step.  
  
Stood there panting and rubbing his neck, his feet cold and his heart pounding, almost choking him. "I – I'm... Is that it? Is that the...monster? The ss-stiga?"  
  
"It's a Striga. And that's it. Dean? You wanna explain?"  
  
Chris didn't care what Dean said – all he could see was the lump of tattered cloth on the floor, between his bed and the window. Rags of black and grey and dirty white. He shuffled forward slowly, trying to get his breathing to slow down. The thing had long, knobby fingers, tipped with curling claws that were yellowed – dirty. It had a straggle of white-grey hair and grey skin and its face was...gone. Was a mushy crater of reddish-black and the dingy edges of what Chris supposed were bone. Chris could hear Dean talking – could hear the dad saying something, and Sammy. But it was all faint – sort of echoing.  
  
Not clear at all, and the air in his room was smoky – hard to breathe. Too thick or too thin or something, ripe with that sick-rotten smell. A dark stain was spreading from under the thing's head.  
  
"My muh-mom's gonna be so m-mad at this...muh-mess –" Chris said. His voice was all wrong – too high pitched and kind of strangled and his ears wouldn't stop ringing and the smoke was getting thicker, everything was going dark, weird little dark sparks crowding in from the edges of Chris's vision. "I – I – I don't...feel –"  
  
"Damnit–" the dad said, and then Chris felt his knees give out and hit the carpet hard and then...nothing.  
  
  
When he woke up he was alone, propped against the downstairs hall closet door. There was the fuzzy plaid blanket from the back of the couch tucked around him, and a cup of water sitting just to his right. The lamp in the living room was on and there were small noises from the kitchen. Chris pushed himself straighter and reached for the glass – took a long drink. The water was cool and good and seemed to settle his stomach. He set the glass down and started to push the blanket away, getting his legs up under him. Getting up, because maybe they were gone and he could get to his Mom and Dad now – set them free.  
  
Just as he got to his feet, the front door opened and the man stood there. His gun was gone, and he had a dark smudge on his cheek-bone – another on the front of his coat. Chris froze, his back pressed tight to the door.  
  
"Gonna live?"  
  
"I guess," Chris said, and the man grinned. He still had the knit cap on – the gloves. Coat buttoned up and his boots crusted with a thin film of mud.  
  
"You'll be fine. We're gonna go now – burn that Striga so there's no chance it'll come back."  
  
"Could it? I mean – you sh-shot it, could it still come back?"  
  
"You never know about creatures like that. Salt'n'burn'll take care of most anything, though. You just sit tight. I want you to count to about five thousand, you hear me?"  
  
"Why do – why do I have to –?"  
  
"Son, don't question me." The man's slight smile was gone and Chris gulped, cringing back a little more. He looked like the _dad_ of that mean dog up the street. "You count, and when you get to five thousand, you go on in the kitchen and get some scissors and you cut your mom and dad free. Not one second sooner, or I'll know. You hear me?"  
  
Chris stared up at the man – looked over, startled, as Sammy and Dean came out of the kitchen. Sammy's hair was wet, like he'd washed his face, and they both had a Twinkie. The Twinkies Mom had bought for Chris's lunch. _*Those are mine. Jerks.*_ He looked back at the dad.  
  
"I hear you. And my name's _Chris_ , I'm not your _son_. You just – you just get the h-hell out of my house. Don't _ever_ come back. Don't ever touch my Mom or D-dad again. You hear _me_?"  
  
Dean let out a soft snort, and Sammy made a little gasp of surprise, but the dad – grinned. Only not the nasty mad-dog one but a real smile, big and happy. "I hear you. We won't be back." The man stepped forward – reached out and put his hand on Chris's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. "Way to be a man, Chris."  
  
  
  
 _1998...  
  
*Way to be a man...a man...*_  
  
"Hey, man, you okay? Dude?"  
  
Chris jumped, startled. Blinked at the bartender, who was staring at him with an earnest, slightly worried expression. "Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm... I'm good. I was just...thinking. Remembering something."  
  
"Okay. Cool. You want another drink?" Chris looked down at his drink – at the mostly-melted ice cubes and the wet, wrinkled square of napkin underneath.  
  
"Nah, I'm good. I...really gotta be going. Got a mid-term to study for. Thanks anyway."  
  
"Sure, man, whatever." Chris stood up – his ass was kinda numb – and fished a five out of his wallet – put it on the bar. He shrugged his jacket on and looked over toward the pool tables. It was smokier back there – a little dimmer – but he could see the dad leaning over a table, lining up a shot. And Dean standing opposite him, the cue braced on the floor, hands casually wrapped around it. Up against the wall was a little table with four stools and someone was sitting there. Someone tall with longish hair falling around his ears. Flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing a cream-white thermal underneath. There were a couple of books open on the table, and a notebook, and the guy was writing something.  
  
 _Kid_ , because there was no way that person was twenty-one. Chris saw the red 'Exit' sign back in the corner and nodded to himself. Probably snuck in – probably tucked away back there, screened by his dad and brother. The little kid who'd laid in Chris's bed and let a monster nearly suck his soul out while his dad and brother lay in wait with guns, ready to kill it.  
  
While Chris watched, Dean sauntered over to the table and picked up his beer – took a long swallow. He said something to Sammy and Sammy looked up, grinning. That same wide, brilliant smile that Chris had last seen around a mouthful of stolen Twinkie. As if they could feel his gaze on them, Sammy and Dean both turned at the same moment, looking straight at him. The smile slipping off the kid's face, their eyes glittering in the dim light. Cat's eyes...no. _*Not cats,*_ Chris thought, watching the slow and nearly sensuous stalk of the dad around the pool table. The lift of his head as he, too, fixed his gaze on Chris. _*They're like wolves. A pack of wolves. Protecting each other...not scared of anything. Laughing.*_  
  
Chris lifted his hand in a tiny sort of wave – a jerk of stiff fingers, really, that ended with his hand at his chest for a moment. Feeling the outline of the pendent there, the one he'd worn for the last six years. Silver star – pentagram. The woman at the booth had said it was for protection – to keep the bad things away – and his Mom had bought it with her lips tucked tight and her hands shaking just a little bit. _"Crazy white people fake witch mumbo-jumbo"_ she'd muttered later, but they both knew better. Chris took one more look at the three people – three hunters – who gazed back with cool appraisal, close and secret and unconcerned. Then he turned and walked out. He felt their eyes on him all the way out the door.


End file.
